


Crunched

by melospiza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 12:14:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1778764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melospiza/pseuds/melospiza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock wake up on the side of the road in a strange location...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crunched

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by "the Mapcrunch Game," a sensation that swept Tumblr through most of February.

  
**TITLE:** Crunched  
 **SERIES:** BBC Sherlock  
 **RATING:** T  
 **CHAPTERS/ONE SHOT:** One Shot  
 **GENRE:** Gen  
 **PAIRING/S:** N/A  
 **SUMMARY:** John and Sherlock wake up on the side of the road in a strange location...  
 **AUTHOR'S NOTES:** This fic was inspired by "the Mapcrunch Game," a sensation that swept Tumblr through most of February.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** I don't intend any profit from the use of these characters. This fic is based upon the modern BBC interpretation of Sherlock Holmes, as such certain elements belong to them.

  
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he found himself staring up at a cloudless peach-hued sky. Something sharp was prickling his scalp and poking at the back of his head ( _gravel grass stubble twigs_ ) and cold was seeping through the back of his overcoat to the small of his back ( _hips situated lower than head or feet lying in a ditch on back somewhere_ ).

Wind whispered in the pine trees overhead as he closed his eyes and made a quick assessment of his physical state. His head was aching, throbbing, and he had a cottony taste in his mouth ( _drugged_ ), but he could sense no pain or numbness in any part of his body, aside from his arse, which had been situated in cold water for God knew how long. He opened and closed his hands, stretched out his fingers, wiggled his toes in his loafers, drew a deep breath and bent his elbows and knees. _He_ seemed in no immediate danger, so his next priority was-

"John?"

Sherlock pushed himself up onto his elbow and stretched out his arm for the dark shape lying beside him. John was further away from the road, lying almost parallel to it, and so had been spared the cold stagnant puddle in the drainage ditch.

"John!"

John groaned and lifted his hand, pressing his palm to his forehead. Sherlock scrambled up onto his knees and grabbed the front of John's jacket, pulling it open and checking him over for injuries as he said, low and urgent, "John, are you all right?"

"Yeah," John grunted impatiently, waving him off. "Yeah, I'm fine." He opened his eyes and squinted into the growing sunlight.

"Sherlock, where are we?"

"I don't know," said Sherlock. He glanced up and down the length of road but there were no distinguishing features, no road signs or mile markers to indicate their location. The road itself was two lanes, with a broken white stripe down the center and solid stripes on either side, similar to any other road that might be found in the countryside. The pavement wasn't cracked or broken, simply faded to some indistinct age by time and sunlight, continuing in either direction in a curving line until it vanished around a corner into a wall of trees. There were no skid marks, no distinct shoe or tyre patterns in the hard-packed soil at the edge of the road. There was nothing to go on besides the fact that the two of them had been in London, and now they were here.

Wherever _here_ was.

A phone rang. John and Sherlock looked at each other. The ringtone was a simple beeping that was familiar to neither of them, and yet it was very close. It rang again, and they both groped around in the grass for it, but John was the one who found it first. It was a bulky brick of a thing with a cylindrical projection at one end - a satellite phone. John thumbed the keypad and held it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

A grimace crossed John's face, and then he held it out in the flat of his palm so they could both hear.

"Hello, boys," sang the voice on the other end.

"Moriarty," gritted Sherlock through his teeth.

"Right you are! But that's the only freebie I'll be giving you today. Are you ready to play the game?"

"I'm through playing games with you," retorted Sherlock coldly.

"Wrong! You're already playing the game. It's pretty simple, really - all you have to do is figure out where you are, then find your way to an airport. Easy peasy."

"An airport?" interjected John.

"Did I stutter? Yes, an airport. Honestly, I don't see how you put up with him, Sherlock, he's so dim."

"So we'll have to fly back to London," said Sherlock.

"I didn't say that, did I? But if you'd bothered to check the date on the phone before you answered it, you'd see that you've been out for two days. Two days, Sherlock! You could get almost anywhere in two days. No-no-no, all you have to do is find an airport."

"Or we could just find the police," said Sherlock.

"Oh, I thought you'd say that. So, you see, I've taken the liberty of planting a bomb on dear Doctor Watson."

John gave a convulsive jerk, then pulled open his jacket and looked down at his chest. Beneath was only the plaid cotton shirt he'd been wearing the last time they could recall. Balancing the phone on one hand, John began to feel cautiously around the waistband of his trousers.

"Silly me," drawled Moriarty, "did I say _planted?_ I mean _implanted._ Good luck finding that one, Johnny Boy. Just for fun we've made four different incisions, so you'll never know which is the right one. Unfortunately I couldn't fix you up with enough explosive to kill everyone around you. Just enough to kill _you._ "

John's eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's. They had gone very wide.

Focusing his gaze back on the phone, Sherlock prompted, "And when we get to the airport?"

"The bomb will be taken out, of course. Doubt you could make it through security with _that._ But in order for the bomb to be taken out, you _have_ to play the game. Tick tock, tick tock, time's a-wasting. Better get a move on, there might be a timer in that thing."

"But-"

Just as John started to protest, the connection abruptly died. Crouched in the grass beside the road, he and Sherlock simply stared at each other for a few moments in silence. From the trees there came the loud buzzing of an insect. Then Sherlock rose to his feet and stepped over the puddle in the ditch, the sole of his shoe grating against the pavement at the edge of the road.

"Do you feel better about one direction over the other?" asked Sherlock.

"No," said John.

"Let's try south, then," said Sherlock. John glanced down at the satellite phone, then slipped it into his jacket pocket and followed Sherlock out onto the road.


End file.
